Luke Starcrawler
by Lady Cinnamon
Summary: Luke goes on a messed-up quest to find out his true calling, PLEASE review!!!!!!!!


Luke Starcrawler -quest for Self-  
  
(In which he meets a lot of other weirdoes on the way that just manage to confuse him more, so if you, o reader, are looking for a serious, organized psychoanalytical study with deep moral and philosophical undercurrents.you're out of luck. Okay, here we go!) (The story has been changed in teeny amounts someplaces for the sake of time, so don't get mad or anything. Also, I do not own any of these characters nor ever will, so. you can't sue me, na-na-na-na-poo-poo!!! Okay, I'm done.)  
  
Who: Luke Annabel Starcrawler (Annabel after his father, who was known as "Annie") What: Embarks on a quest for Self Where: In a cluster of crumbling star-systems 7 city blocks away, on a desert planet called Tatoo-ine, that revolved around binary suns, Piercing- ine and Piercing-teen, I mean, two. When: Long after our time, so what are you worrying about? You'll be dead and buried by then, so sit back and enjoy the story while you can. How: a ship, I guess. Why: Wouldn't you like know!  
  
Luke, musing to himself: What am I doing here, still on Tatoo-ine? My days are empty of meaning. I do nothing from morning to night other than drink blue milk, scream at Uncle Owen, oil the droids, get cheated by the filthy Jawas who sold me the droids, slaughter womp-rats in Beggars' Canyon (the only canyon), and generally lead a life of a Qwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvvbnm (loosely translated from Desert-tongue, means "son of a burping bantha dust- mite".) I have half a mind of getting off this rock: it's dry and arid and lonely, and Aunt Beru won't let me get close to any alcohol even though I'm over 21; seems like no one around here thinks anything of our Constitution, and how we fought to make this planet how it is today.  
  
Chorus: You're a grand old flag You're a high-flying flag And forever in peace may you reign You're the emblem of, the land I love The home of the free and the brave.  
  
Actually, come to think of it, I have little right of being proud; this is my home, true, but it was ranked almost last in the most recent Palpatine Poll of Pride! Well, at least it was better than the uninhabited 5 by 8 inch meteor #178400W, but then again, does that mean anything? I wonder. Yes, dear Luckie had been doing a lot of wondering lately, especially after the shocking and history-forging roller-coaster of events that had taken place that day. You can get a pretty good picture of these I have just mentioned by taking a peek into his diary, which all adoring fans thought had gone lost in a terrible sandstorm; we know otherwise. Here, a small excerpt. Day #3 from purchase of diary,  
  
7:00 am. Before I got into my raggedy white fashion-less rags today, I looked into the mirror and discovered I was turning into a man, finally (!). I wonder (how, I wonder why, yesterday you told me 'bout the blue blue sky.hehehe Go Beatles, GO!).  
  
8:00 am. I threw up again after drinking the blue milk, U. Owen muttered something about an overdose, A. Beru said that I'm getting just like my father. Owen yelled and told me to follow up and pick out some droids. I wonder. We went outside to find, as usual, a group of those grunting, squeaking little rag dolls called Jawas. They seemed to be their usual grimy scheming selves, selling busted-up robots for a mountain of credits after a great deal of bickering. Except for one that was trying to protest the lack of "cleanliness and tidiness in today's modern Jawa" or something, and giving away little packets of rose-scented soap; he was shot down quick, though, because his compatriots considered it against their long tradition of grubby uncleanliness (yes, and their females did wear veils, and they did plant bombs in moisture farms). Besides, he was disturbing potential buyers. Then they tried to trick us, the foul scoundrels, into getting a messed up reddish R2 unit with a split personality, but a creepy gold British droid we bought (he speaks Bocce!) told us to go for another R2 unit, a blue-white one. "Whatever!" I thought. "As long as I can get out of here quick; the swarm of man-eating flies is migrating from around the Jawas towards me, and that can't be good." Can it? I wonder. I'm gonna go catch up on my beauty sleep in the meantime.  
  
1:00 pm. A weird thing happened when I was cleaning the droid R2-D2, the lean mean beeping machine; terrible and wonderful at the same time, a vision, like an ancient twinge that was stirred up in the depths of my soul, that made me want to jump up and scream a note so loud that my voice would ring across the heavens and hang there in an aching rapture the color of fiery crimson.I had just.  
  
  
  
STUBBED MY TOE! The excruciating pain was throbbing it's way up my left leg, and a mist had fallen before me; as I wiped my brimming eyes, cursing like only Hutts and angered Italian mothers know how, I managed to glimpse a projection that was spilling out of R2's robotic gut, of a woman with a bizarre hairdo that kept whining: "Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you're by only (source) of dope.I mean, hope". Luke fell suddenly in love with the image, even though she looked a lot like Casper the friendly ghost on a bad hair day; but, as someone famous once said, "Truth is beauty, and beauty truth", and it was evident that the woman meant sincere business. You could tell by the haunted look in her eyes, the tremble in her voice: had she stubbed her toe too? Waves of friendliness and concern flooded though him, and he finally glimpsed his possible purpose in life: to help and provide substantial psychiatric treatment to all fellow toe-stubbers and chronic pant-wetters like he! And with this in mind, he decided to set out for a certain Old Ben Kenobi, Creature of the Desert. Perhaps he knew this Obi- Wan, and perhaps Obi-Wan knew the lady, and perhaps then Luke could know the lady, and then. "Umm, excuse me, your most Exalted Master of the Lost Desert Psychotic Toe-Stubbing Farmboys Without Any Identity Whatsoever On a Backwater Planet in the Outer Rim, I would like to inform you." started the obnoxious Goldie droid. "Just call me Luke, ok?" said, you guessed it, Luke. "I mean, I'm honored and everything, but that title could give a person the impression that I was.well.more important than I am, you know?" "No sir, frankly, I don't know, I was just programmed for basic human- cyborg relations, although I do speak and understand fluently over 3000 galactic languages, and." "Fine, but let's leave it to LUKE, ok?" "Alright, EMLDPT-SFWAIWOBPOR." "What the heck is that?" Cue for robotic sigh at ignorance. "It stands for Exalted Master of the Lost Desert." "I said, let's leave it to LUKE, okay?!?" "Correct, Your Towsel-haired Majesty." "JUST LUUUUUUKE!!!!!!! O-K-A-Y???!!!???" Cue for robot cowering/whimpering in fear. "Whatever you say.Master Luke?" Cue for hopeful robotic eye sensors glimmering. "Alright, I guess I can take that; but no more of this Majestical Deserter of Towsels or whatever. Now, what did you have to inform me of?" "I just wanted to say that the time is now DONG DONG DONG DONG DONG DONG, six o'clock in the evening.fancy that, it took us (rapid calculation) about five hours to complete that discussion. Isn't that odd? It's like the fact you never see people going to the bathroom in movies, yet they've GOT to go sometime. oh, and R2 just disappeared." "He WHAT?!?" Dun-dun-dun!  
  
I will try and write a second chapter soon, but, please, please review this one! I beg of you!!! Sniff.sniff. And if you don't, I'll, I'll, get my big brother to set his deadly Force-wielding piranhas on you, BUAHAHAHAHA!!! Ok, just review it, will yah? You will? Yeeeehhaaahhh! 


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